


Star Field

by thetreesgrowodd



Category: Toy Story Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetreesgrowodd/pseuds/thetreesgrowodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toys have instincts. Woody and Buzz explore theirs together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star Field

Buzz’s fingers fit into Woody’s holster, the tips peeking out the bottom. The gun had been lost, years and years back, but Woody still thinks about it sometimes. He should never have let it go. He is vulnerable without it — but that’s just a remnant of thought from his faded heroic Sheriff days. He likes Buzz’s fingers there better anyway.

They are lucky Woody’s body is so soft and bendable. If he had been a toy as barrel-chested and stiff as Buzz, it would have made things nearly impossible for them. But Woody can mold himself into a curve against Buzz’s front, even if there are the buttons to consider. Sometimes Woody’s decorative buttons push Buzz’s functional ones, accidentally.

Buzz is glowing. That means it’s still early, because it fades after a while. The others might still be awake. They have to be quiet.

Buzz’s fingers circle Woody’s belt buckle. The belt loops are real, and Buzz gets his finger in one. His other hand, behind Woody’s back, slips through the ring, then reaches back to grasp the pull string. He wraps it around and around his fist, chuckling to himself.

Woody retorts by touching Buzz’s buttons. They have many uses. He knows just how far he can press them before they trigger the recorded sounds. There is some give in them — they can be pressed just a little. Buzz groans.

His arm creaks, plastic on plastic. The sound is usually lost in the noise of the day, but Woody’s ear is half an inch away, so he can hear it. Their breath too, every sigh and gasp, even if they don’t truly breathe. They draw air with throats and lungs that don’t exist. Some scrap of human instinct, driving them to fill needs they don’t have. As real as Buzz’s study sessions and hijinks at the Academy.

“It’s not cheating,” Buzz whispers. Woody doesn’t know if he means the string play or his relationship with Bo. It most certainly is cheating, either way.

Woody’s fingers dip into the tiny screw wells on Buzz’s back and he doesn’t reply. His hands flirt with opening the battery compartment. He presses the lever on Buzz’s back to make his arm jerk, yanking the string. All distractions from thought.

Plastic against denim makes noise too, when they’re rubbed together hard enough. The springs in Buzz’s back creak. Woody gets a tight grip on Buzz — the ridge around his neck, when his helmet is down, is a great handhold. His long legs kick, boots slide as he tries to brace himself against the floor, plastic spurs spin and graze Buzz’s legs. He yanks Woody’s cord to its limit and his wings pop. Woody’s fingers claw the loops of string out of Buzz’s hand, desperately.

Buzz lets go.

He is still glowing. It shines off of Woody’s buttons and star-shaped badge and half lidded eyes, evoking the star field that was programmed deep in Buzz’s mind. Those stars and spinning planets and he as their hero — to seek out, to protect, to love. The memories are a lie, but will always be part of him, his own personal truth. He lays a hand over the stars and watches them glitter in the space between his fingers, rising and falling with Woody’s chest. He’s found them after all.


End file.
